Rhythm
by Amythe3lder
Summary: Sherlock tries out a new coping method. Britpicked by Red Valerian


"I am rather bored. I think I'll text Lestrade now. Maybe there is crime!"

Something about the measured cadence of his once-and-again flatmate's announcement struck John as just slightly odd. He glanced up from the kitchen table where he was carefully chopping potatoes into uneven chunks. He really ought to be better at this, he thought. Being a surgeon was not entirely dissimilar to performing the duties of a prep cook, at least as far as the type of tools were concerned. Still, no matter how he focused, the pieces remained irregular. Sod it. He didn't really care, and Sherlock wouldn't eat much anyway. He wouldn't eat when they were on a case, and he simply didn't eat when they weren't. Besides, it seemed to John that more interesting things were happening right now. Sherlock's hair was still a bit damp from the shower, and the fire of madness that had been so worryingly present in his eyes for the last couple of days had been banked. He appeared much less manic than he had when he had flounced off an hour earlier, though he had just said he was bored, albeit in a fairly strange way... Oh! A jot of an old poetry lesson zipped through his distracted mind. "Cases are welcome. Are we doing this bit now? Was that a haiku?" John shot a quizzical grin at Sherlock as he set the knife down.

"Speaking in haikus  
is what I choose to do now  
will you make some tea?" Sherlock asked, kneeling beside John's chair and looking soulfully into his darling's eyes. John rolled them mightily. Like he wasn't already doing everything else. How nice it must be to take your ease, lolling about on the couch in a frenetic sulk.

"Why don't _you_ make tea  
I have a life beyond you  
and your stupid coat," the blogger finished as his daughter began crying from her cot in the upstairs room that had been his. He wasn't even sure what the coat had to do with it, but it seemed like a good place to start. He bounded up the stairs to retrieve the other baby of 221B.

"You make the best tea  
my coat is innocent here  
why are you upset?" the detective rejoined once his friend had returned with Elanor. John had named her for Samwise Gamgee's firstborn, and Mycroft had known somehow and congratulated him on getting away with a Tolkien-inspired name that sounded normal. John didn't bother to deny it. He secretly thought he would have made a pretty good hobbit if he had lived in Middle Earth. While he fixed a bottle, he wondered what race Sherlock would be. Aside from a tendency to obsess, Sherlock was nothing like a dwarf. He was far too unsociable to be found in a hobbit's smail, and too… Sherlock… to be a mere man. An elf, then, or perhaps a wizard. John tried to picture Gandalf pouting and startled a quick burst of laughter from himself. Definitely an elf. Unless dragon was an option. He chortled again.

"Laughter from my Jawn  
offers no explanation  
though it is pleasant," Sherlock called from the living room. Upon entering with the bottle, he found that Sherlock had scooped her up and was gently dancing with her. Sherlock had taken to holding Elanor whenever they quarreled. This quirk had asserted itself almost before the doctor had finished bringing boxes of his and his daughter's things up the seventeen steps to their flat. With the mind of a man who had spent far too much time in therapy, John suspected it was his friend's unconsciously manipulative way of ensuring that whatever transpired in the course of the argument, John would be unable to leave him again. Elanor was a tiny hostage in the arms of the detective, who had yet to deduce that John could hardly stand to be out of reach of his new lover.

Wait. Well, not exactly. Not lover. Not yet. Flatmate, yes. Bedmate, well yes. Mate in general, hearty yes. Mate as a verb, not quite. Soon, John fervently hoped, but so far things had been so busy, and there was still so much to puzzle through. The spectre of Mary clung to John yet, reminding him of his proclivity for poor life choices. Sherlock had new ghosts of his own, as John had learned only a shamingly short time ago. The scars had been healed and only faintly tinged pink by the time he knew of them, nearly a year and a half after the fact.

That had been the first night Sherlock had asked him to share his bed. "Asked" may be the wrong word, too. Sherlock had already got rid of his bed by the time John had arrived home from work that evening. It had been crowded with the bed, the cot, and two dressers in the smallish room upstairs "It's an experiment, John." Sherlock had explained evenly. When John inquired as to what experiment could possibly necessitate his best mate absconding with his belongings, Sherlock had changed the subject by suggesting that John would be very comfortable in Sherlock's bed. With him. Actually, maybe that wasn't the non sequitur it had initially appeared to be.

He recalled Sherlock slipping his button-down off of his shoulders and reaching for the back collar of his undershirt to tug it over his head and off. John had been unsure if he was allowed, at this stage, to notice how his flatmate's skin glowed in the lamplight, and then was suddenly not shy at all as he spotted the lines marring that exposed back turned just slightly towards him. The marks from just under the bottommost curl to…well, at least one ran down below the waistline of those shorts. John knew that subtle reveal had been as close to disclosure as one normally got with a Holmes and he appreciated the trust it was indicative of. Lots of words had been said after Sherlock had disrobed, but the gist of the conversation had been summed up in Sherlock's quiet declaration, "It was all to keep you safe." The openly loving look on his face had told John that, as far as the other man was concerned, that was easily worth a bit of scar tissue and some upsetting dreams.

Now, the detective was closed off and tense, and John shook his head and thought for a moment. After mentally counting syllables he replied,  
"Calm down, Sherlock Holmes  
I'm just a bit frustrated  
not truly enraged."

Sherlock relaxed and held out a hand for the bottle while cradling Elanor against his broad chest with the other arm. Even as he fed the infant, Sherlock cast a smoky look at John. In an insinuating tone that dipped lower on the last word, he said,  
"I'm not yet _relieved  
_now, what sort of _frustration  
_'vexed' or more...'_thwarted_'"

John was blushing by the last word.


End file.
